


Crashing

by Kmrjo



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kmrjo/pseuds/Kmrjo
Summary: Set at end of Canticle S04 E02:.  After Emma Carr’s treachery Morse may need a bit more time.





	Crashing

First the phone crashed into the wall. 

The heat of anger had singed away all rational thought immediately followed by the cold shock of losing control. He closed his eyes as he knotted his fingers tightly atop his head. 

For a moment he just breathed. 

Two days ago Emma Carr’s toxic lemonade had pushed him over the edge into a world without logic. Order fell away replaced by an exhausting endurance test pitting what he could gather of himself against gut churning visions and the terrifying creatures of nightmares. More disturbing were the quiet lulls filled with loss and deep sorrow. The numbing moments of sharp bitten off rejections and painful misunderstandings.

_“…you think you’re so smart, too good for….”_

He grabbed the bottle of Scotch and began to pour. Why had she called? Why had she left? It must have been her, but she didn’t want to be found! Why’d she given him a lead at all? He'd lost her just as he'd realized he needed her but what did it matter anyway? If he loved someone they left him. As the room grew darker so did his thoughts. His chest burned as the voices from his past filtered through the growing alcohol haze, each drink lending to their volume.

_"...you’re useless…you didn’t even finish….”_

As he worked through the bottle he found the amber liquid wasn’t quieting his frustration, his restlessness only growing. He stalked around the tiny flat trying to find a place of solace then realized his glass was empty…again. He spun around and flung the glass into the wall to join the phone. There was a tiny rush of relief, of satisfaction. But it wasn’t enough. 

He noticed the room was moving in an unusual way as he stumbled into the sad little kitchenette. Should the room be moving at all? The walls started rolling in out as if standing upright were a burden. He leaned over the old dumpy cabinets contemplating the crap toaster and dodgy hot plate as he grasped at the tails of his racing thoughts.

_"…your ring back…. I don’t love you…don’t know if I ever….”_

A chipped saucer flew out of the kitchenette, splintering on the front door. After a second the cup went too. Then a plate, a glass, a handful of forks. His vision blurred for a moment, and he could feel something coming as if homing in on his pain. He had to keep moving. More kitchen ware went flying. A teapot, sauce pan, tin of beans. The fucking toaster. Dish after mismatched dish shattered down the wall into the growing pile of destruction. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he tried to catch his breath, the slithering whispers now filling his ears.

_"….that last term you were a thing altogether pitiable….”_

His heart was beating harder, rushing the blood through his veins.  He couldn’t think. He weaved toward the bookshelves, a vague wailing sound throwing him off balance. He clutched at the books but couldn’t seem to connect with any. He was finally able to grab a thick volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, a volume filled with beautiful words about love. What did this bastard know anyway? He hefted up the book and threw it into the bedroom, pages rattling, before it hit the floor with a dull thud.

_"…an automatic failure….one… just one paper went astray…..”_

Beckett, Joyce, Keats dove into the next room slamming into the tiny dresser or bouncing off the rumpled bed. He chucked book after book as the wailing grew louder and louder. The pressure in his head increased with each blaring sound wave. Finally the whining screech became unbearably loud. It surrounded him. It was everything. It had…to stop! 

He covered his ears and screamed just as thunder exploded behind him. Spinning from the bookcase flashing red light beams burned his eyes as a dark, blurry form filled his broken doorway. A halo of white light framed the being and filled the stone stairwell with unaccustomed brightness. Frantically he heaved two fat books at the thing, making contact and halving the creature. He squinted now into the full force of the blinding light as something lunged at him grabbing his upraised arm and wrenching it behind his back. His wrist was caught in the demon’s maw, its iron jaws clamping down tight. He pulled away, twisting wildly as he was ensnared. He couldn’t form any words, the sound from his throat a torn, ragged shriek. His other arm was caught and forced back.

_“….Christ, this bloke’s off his…”_

He bucked and cursed as his legs were knocked out from under him, a heavy mass piling into his back as he hit the floor. He couldn’t stop fighting even as more beings crowded around ensuring his defeat.

_"….did you get his name from….what?! Shit! ...Morse? …Jesus, get a doctor….”_

He kicked as hard as he could finally making contact with one of the shifting shades. The thing roared dropping onto his legs and trapping them. The room was a blur of movement, bursting with crazed light and sound. He shook his head, desperately gasping for breath as he felt his body going cold. He shivered uncontrollably in his enemy’s grasp.

_"….the Doc’s here….hold him steady….”_

The weight on his back lifted marginally as his shirt was dragged from his waistband, a hand pushing his pants down. He wanted to tell them to stop but he could only manage wheezing breathes and low broken sobs. Suddenly he felt a jab in his backside followed by a stinging burn. A burning brand of shame. 

_Emma laughed._

The room was growing dim. He was vaguely aware of being lifted, floating in the softening light. He was becoming smaller, less substantial, shrinking into a tiny glow far, far away.

~*~ 

He awoke in a plain bed surrounded by curtains, his eyes crinkling in the pale light as his head lolled on the pillow. 

It felt like déjà vu all over again.

"What’s happened,” he whispered into the quiet empty space. 

Something moved at the foot of the bed.

Someone.

"Morse?” His vision cleared enough to make out the strong features softened with concern.

"It’s...Thursday?”

“Actually Morse it’s Sunday.”

"Sir?”

“You're in hospital again, the doctor said you’ve had a sort of flashback,” Thursday intoned quietly from his chair. “Said it happens sometimes after taking hallucinogens, after a ‘bad trip’ as he called it.” 

Morse stared at him, his vision swimming, unsure how to process this information. Finally in a low rasp he asked, “Will it happen again?”

"He’s not sure, maybe not.  But he didn’t think all the spirits you downed had helped any. Had to pump your stomach out.” 

Morse absently rubbed his stomach as it cramped at the news. 

After a few moments trying to sort all this Morse felt the frissons of dread growing. He nearly whispered, “Who...h-how did I get here?”

Thursday’s face closed up as he looked down to his hands. “No need to think about that now. We can talk later.”

Morse’s suspicions were confirmed as he closed his eyes hoping to disappear.  The denizens of Cowley station would be abuzz with his latest downfall for weeks. Thursday was quiet for a few moments watching as Morse lost his train of thought, his face going slack as he floated in the soft sedative haze. Then a sudden jolt of memory made his eyes pop open, his brow crease. 

"Miss Thursday,” he whispered. 

Her father leaned forward at this, eyes narrowing. Could Morse have been piecing the puzzle of his girl’s disappearance? 

"What about her,” he said slowly, carefully. 

Soft breaths echoed in Morse’s head. Choked sounds of pain, tears being held back by shear will. He raised his hand to cover his eyes and shook his head slightly. 

Thursday sat on the edge of his chair assessing the younger man for a few moments before making a decision. He rose and moved to stand by the head of the bed. “You’ve been through the ringer,” he said gently. “You rest up and I’ll see you back at the nick…when you’re ready.” 

Morse nodded his head and rolled over curling into himself as he dragged a pillow down to wrap his arms around. 

Thursday reached out and gently shook Morse’s shoulder until large, liquid blue eyes briefly met his. “You’re going to be alright lad.” Another shake. “Believe it. We’ll see to it.” 

Morse hugged the pillow tighter and haltingly nodded several times trying to convey he believed this. At the moment it didn’t seem like a logical conclusion. 

He shuddered and buried his face in the pillow as Thursday’s footsteps faded away.

**Author's Note:**

> "It’s like déjà vu all over again” is a quote by American Baseball player Yogi Berra who frequently created memorable humorous phrases sometimes known as Yogi-isms.


End file.
